


As the Moon Will Rise

by inexplicifics



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Knotting, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Curse Breaking, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26743303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics
Summary: Jaskier, in search of song inspiration, ventures onto the grounds of the castle that's supposed to hold a cursed prince. The curse is real, and so is the prince...but Jaskier may have gotten himself in a bit more trouble than anticipated.The cursed prince isn't nearly asrestrainedas he was supposed to be. And who puts a maze in front of their giant cursed castle, anyways?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 65
Kudos: 1644
Collections: The Witcher Alternate Universes





	As the Moon Will Rise

The Beast was supposed to be _chained_.

Well. To be perfectly fair, the Beast _had been_ chained. Jaskier can see the manacles still clamped around its brawny wrists, see the short lengths of broken silver chain dangling from each manacle, whenever he rounds a corner and catches a glimpse of the creature hot on his heels.

This doesn’t _help_ at all, of course, since whatever the Beast _was_ chained to, it certainly isn’t _now_. No, in point of fact, it is chasing him through this _godsdamned stupid maze_. What sort of idiot puts a godsdamned maze in front of their main _doors_ , he’d like to know. This really doesn’t seem quite fair. Jaskier isn’t actually a _thief_. He just came to the castle to write a song!

Well, if he survives this, he’ll get a hell of a song out of it, won’t he.

He rounds another corner, slipping on the slick grass beneath his boots, and then an enormous clawed hand loops around his waist and he is yanked back, landing flat on his ass on the ground. He scrambles desperately to get to his feet, and the Beast lands on its knees between his legs, grabbing his forearms and pinning him down.

“Ah,” Jaskier says, staring up into inhumanly golden eyes. “Hello? I’m Jaskier, a traveling bard - just dropped by to see the sights, you know how it is -”

The Beast _growls_ , low and menacing, and Jaskier’s words dry up in his throat. The Beast is _fucking terrifying_ : a sort of horrible amalgam of wolf and man, with thick white fur and a toothy muzzle, mobile pointed ears and enormous clawed hands; there’s a tail brushing the ground behind him, too, protruding from under the rough loincloth which is the only scrap of clothing on the Beast’s enormous body. Jaskier is quite glad of the loincloth, which given the size of the bulge beneath it is only just barely keeping the Beast’s modesty intact.

But he also notices, somewhat to his own surprise, that the Beast’s clawed hands have left no scratches on his arms nor torn his doublet. And the Beast is not putting all that much weight upon him, either: Jaskier is quite thoroughly pinned, but not _hurt_.

“ _Trespasser_ ,” the Beast rumbles.

Jaskier hadn’t realized the Beast could _talk_. Certainly the wolfish muzzle doesn’t appear to lend itself to ease of communication.

“Ah, really, I’d like to think of myself as an unexpected guest?” Jaskier tries hopefully. The Beast bares its _very sharp_ teeth, and Jaskier swallows hard.

“Smell like _prey_ ,” the Beast observes, and leans down to snuffle at Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier makes a deeply undignified squeaking noise.

“Please don’t eat me?” Jaskier says in a very small voice. “I really didn’t mean any harm. I just wanted to - well, to meet you.”

The Beast pulls back to meet his eyes and gives a soft confused rumble.

“Well, there’s so many stories about you!” Jaskier babbles. “The cursed prince, who becomes a - a _magnificent_ beast - at every full moon, a curse no one knows how to break - it’s just _begging_ for a song or three -”

“Hmm,” the Beast rumbles. “No songs.”

“Right, right, no songs, alright,” Jaskier says hastily. “You’re sure? I could do a very good ballad about the tragedy of your curse -”

“ _No_ ,” the Beast repeats. Jaskier bites his lip.

“Right, well, if I’m not going to be writing any songs about you, I should be - ah - be on my way, if you’ll just be so good as to let me go, I’ll just get out of your - ah - fur?” he offers.

“Hmm,” the Beast says. “Prey. Caught you.”

“Ah, yes, you definitely did that, I really can’t argue with that assessment,” Jaskier says faintly. “What - ah - just out of curiosity, you understand - what do you do with your successfully captured prey?”

The Beast cocks its head and leans down, slowly and deliberately, to snuffle from Jaskier’s throat over his chest and stomach until it finally reaches his _prick_ , which has regrettably decided that being pinned down by a very strong, very marvelously muscled, extremely _male_ Beast is...rather exciting. “Hm,” the Beast says, low and almost thoughtful.

“Please don’t?” Jaskier whispers. His body may think this is extremely exhilarating, but his prick has always been a damned fool thing, leading him into all sorts of trouble.

The Beast leans back, still pinning him gently but firmly to the ground, and _looks_ at him for a long moment, fur glowing in the moonlight, eyes as golden as the sun. And then it very, very slowly uncurls its paws and lets go of his arms.

“ _Go,_ ” it rumbles. “ _Run._ ”

Jaskier scrambles to his feet and heads towards what he sincerely hopes is the way out -

And stops, looking back, to see the Beast hunched over, clawed hands scoring the smooth grass of the maze, its huge head hanging down. The silver manacles gleam in the moonlight.

It didn’t hurt him. There won’t even be bruises where its hands held him down. It could have ripped his throat out - could have flipped him over and shredded his clothes and had its way with him - could have done any number of terrible things, but all it has _actually_ done is give him a good scare and some grass-stains on his trousers, and then let him go when he asked. He’s had actual _lovers_ do a lot worse than that.

He’s got a vial of oil in one pocket, because he always likes to be prepared for any eventuality. And he’s always been a reckless fool.

He takes a step back towards the Beast, and the Beast’s head comes up, unnerving golden eyes fixing on him. Slowly, Jaskier unlaces his doublet, shrugs out of it, and drops it to the grass behind him. The Beast’s eyes follow every motion avidly.

“Come and catch me,” Jaskier whispers, and turns, and runs.

The Beast makes an inhuman noise, a howl that shivers down to Jaskier’s bones, and Jaskier doesn’t look back, sprints as fast as he can around the corners of the hedge maze, boots skidding on the grass, breath heaving in his chest. He rounds a particularly sharp corner and screeches to a halt: a dead end, hedges on all three sides looming up above his head. He whirls around and finds that the way out is blocked by the Beast’s enormous bulk: it must stand seven feet tall, and its shoulders seem broad enough to span the entire space between the hedges. Jaskier swallows hard and backs up, groping behind him for he’s not sure what.

The Beast chuckles, low and smug, and stalks forward, looming over him. Jaskier hits the hedge with a rustle of leaf-covered branches, and the Beast reaches out, casual as a man plucking an apple from a tree, and curls a hand around his waist, yanking him forward until he thumps against the Beast’s broad, furry chest. Jaskier braces his hands on the Beast’s shoulders and looks up into golden eyes.

“Caught me,” he says, a little shakily. The Beast rumbles agreement. “Going to devour me, then, o most magnificent of Beasts?”

That earns him a low chuckle, and then the Beast leans back just a little and runs a single claw down the front of his undershirt; the linen parts like warm butter. Jaskier shrugs out of the shirt, letting it fall, and tugs the vial of oil out of his pocket, holding it up for the Beast to see. The Beast grins, showing _many_ very sharp white teeth, and bears Jaskier surprisingly gently down onto the grass, pinning him down with one enormous clawed hand spread over his chest, then runs the claws of its other hand through the laces of his trousers, shredding them effortlessly. Jaskier wriggles enthusiastically to kick his boots off, and the Beast considerately helps yank his trousers off, leaving him bare to the cool night air and the brush of the Beast’s fur against his legs as it shoulders his thighs apart.

“Oh holy _fuck_ ,” Jaskier blurts as a long, almost prehensile tongue slurps over his prick. It’s nothing like any other tongue he’s ever had the pleasure of encountering, but the oddness only enhances the experience; he writhes, and the Beast wraps both hands around his hips and pins him effortlessly in place. It’s making a low, pleased rumble deep in its throat, and Jaskier moans and shivers and claws at the grass beneath him as the Beast licks him to a shuddering and utterly exhilarating climax.

And then the Beast licks him clean.

Jaskier sags back against the grass and pants for breath. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says faintly. “Oh fuck, that was amazing.”

The Beast chuckles and grins, toothy and a little mean, and adjusts its grip so it’s holding his thighs spread wide. Jaskier draws in a sharp breath, about to point out that he really needs a moment to _prepare_ himself - and the Beast lowers its head and runs that glorious inhuman tongue right up the crack of his ass. Jaskier yells, full-throated and shockingly loud, and reaches down to haul his own legs further apart, tilting his hips up to give the Beast easier access. The Beast rumbles approval, stroking its hands gently over his wide-spread thighs, fur tickling just a little, and Jaskier writhes a little and then goes still, rigid with shock, as that clever prehensile tongue worms its way _into_ his ass, wet and agile and very very different from anything else Jaskier has ever had inside him. Jaskier whines between clenched teeth and shivers with ecstasy as the Beast’s tongue finds his sweet spot. The wet, filthy sounds fill the night air, mingled with the desperate noises falling from Jaskier’s lips and the low pleased rumbles rising from the Beast’s chest, and it’s a melody as gorgeous as any Jaskier has ever played.

By the time the Beast sits back on its heels, Jaskier is achingly hard again and ready to fucking _beg_ if it will get him properly fucked. The Beast gives him a tongue-lolling, exceedingly smug look and reaches down to rip its loincloth away, and Jaskier’s eyes go wide. The Beast is... _extremely_ well-endowed.

“Oh _shit_ yes,” Jaskier breathes, and gropes for the vial of oil. “Give me a moment to get myself stretched and then I want that _in me_.”

The Beast looks genuinely startled by Jaskier’s enthusiasm, but it strokes its hands over his legs and waits quite patiently while Jaskier pours oil over his fingers and squirms rather inelegantly to sink two fingers deep into himself. The Beast’s tongue has already loosened him up remarkably well; Jaskier can move to three fingers after very little time indeed, and takes a long look at the Beast’s magnificent prick before biting his lip and working his fourth finger in as well. The Beast chuckles and leans down to swipe his tongue over Jaskier’s busy fingers, worming it into Jaskier’s ass alongside them, and Jaskier whines through clenched teeth.

“Right,” he says hoarsely, pulling his hand free and groping for the vial of oil again and propping himself up on one elbow. “Right, let me just -” He dumps the rest of the oil over the Beast’s prick, tosses the vial aside, and wraps his hand around the width of it to spread the oil around. The Beast makes a low, startled sound and arches against his grip. Jaskier’s fingers barely meet around the girth of the Beast’s prick, and he makes admiring noises as he strokes.

“Alright,” he says at last, and the Beast growls softly and pushes him flat, scooping his legs up and spreading them wide around the Beast’s narrow hips.

“Prey,” the Beast rumbles. “Caught you.”

“Caught me fair and square,” Jaskier agrees breathlessly. “Going to claim your prey, then?”

“Yes,” the Beast growls, and the head of that enormous prick presses against the rim of Jaskier’s ass - and it hesitates. Jaskier takes a deep breath and looks up into those inhuman golden eyes and smiles, relaxing into the Beast’s clawed grip, the immense strength of his hands.

“Yes,” he murmurs, and the Beast nods and presses its hips slowly forward.

Jaskier lets his head thump back against the grass and gasps at the feeling of being spread wide - far wider than anyone ever has before. It doesn’t hurt, not after the copious oil and the Beast’s tongue and his own fingers, but it’s a shocking stretch with a faint, glorious burn to it, a bright spark of not-quite-pain that leaves him whimpering. He claws at the grass a little, feeling it slick and dew-damp beneath his fingers, and then decides that as long as he’s _got_ the opportunity he may as well take it, and reaches up to tangle his fingers in the Beast’s thick mane of white fur instead. The Beast makes a rather astonished sound and then ducks its head to make the stretch easier on Jaskier’s arms. Its fur is surprisingly soft.

It’s also got its prick _so fucking deep_ in Jaskier’s ass that he thinks he can feel it in his _throat_. He whines a bit and wriggles, and the Beast growls, a soft noise without any threat to it, and tightens its hands around Jaskier’s hips. They just about _span_ Jaskier’s hips, and isn’t _that_ something to think about. Jaskier yanks a little at the fur in his hands, mostly unintentionally, and the Beast growls again.

“Alright,” Jaskier says a little faintly. “Alright, that’s...yes. Go on, then.”

The Beast leans down, very slowly, and licks his cheek, just a tiny flick of its tongue like a butterfly kiss. Jaskier laughs breathlessly. “I’ve figured you out,” he tells the golden eyes staring down at him, the rows of sharp teeth that are somehow becoming less terrifying by the minute. “You’re a complete sweetheart, aren’t you?”

“Not sweet,” the Beast snarls indignantly.

“Oh, but you’re being so sweet to me,” Jaskier croons. “Going to fuck me so well, aren’t you?”

The Beast growls almost plaintively, and Jaskier grins. “Come on, then,” he says, and wriggles as best he can against the implacable grip on his hips. “Fuck me, darling.”

“ _Darling?_ ” the Beast says, incredulous tone coming through very clearly despite the muzzle and the teeth. But it also draws back until only the tip of its prick is buried in Jaskier’s ass and then snaps its hips forward again, driving all the air out of Jaskier’s lungs in a yelp of shocked pleasure, so Jaskier really doesn’t have the wherewithal to explain that he uses pet names about as easily as he _breathes_ most of the time, and really for a monstrous Beast, his current partner _is_ being astonishingly sweet, so ‘darling’ seems downright _appropriate_ , honestly.

Also, the Beast can _fuck_. Part of that might just be that its prick is so big it can’t _help_ but hit Jaskier’s sweet spot on every thrust, but also the _rhythm_ is good, and the _depth_ is good, and the Beast watches Jaskier with those inhuman golden eyes and shifts just a little, just a little more, until Jaskier is yelling full-throated and shocked on every thrust, grabbing at the Beast’s fur and writhing beneath the Beast’s hands and _shaking_ it’s so damned good.

And then the Beast frees one clawed hand from Jaskier’s hip and curls it around his _prick_ and Jaskier goes over his peak howling like he’s a wolf himself, the pleasure like dazzling bursts of golden light behind his eyelids.

He’s limp and panting when he comes back to himself, and the Beast is _still_ driving into him, steady as a metronome. Jaskier blinks his eyes open dazedly, only to see the Beast raise its hand to its muzzle and lick his spend from its clawed fingers, and he _can’t_ actually get hard again - twice in such swift succession is unusual enough - but oh _fuck_ he wants to. He definitely whines a bit, rather plaintively, and the Beast looks down to meet his eyes and grins, all sharp white teeth and lolling tongue and irritatingly justified smugness.

“Tastes good,” the Beast rumbles, and Jaskier whimpers again. Oh, it’s just straight up not _fair_ that he can’t get hard again - this is the sort of incredible, unbelievable night that really _ought_ to involve endless orgasms. Where’s a magical fountain of orgasm when you need one?

...It’s possible Jaskier has been fucked silly. He occasionally gets a little...ridiculous and giggly when the sex has been particularly good, and he has to admit that this _is_ , in fact, one of the more remarkable and pleasurable nights he’s had in a long time.

The Beast growls, a deep reverberating sound, and thrusts a little harder, and Jaskier reaches up clumsily to stroke a hand over its cheek as the Beast digs its claws into the ground beside his head and goes shudderingly still above him and -

Oh dear.

Oh _fuck_.

Jaskier tries very hard not to tense up as the base of the Beast’s prick begins to _swell_ , and oh yes, Jaskier can guess what _this_ is, he’s seen enough hounds mating. The Beast actually looks sort of...sheepish, Jaskier realizes, ears flat to its head and shoulders a bit hunched. Like it didn’t realize this was going to happen. Which, given that Jaskier can’t imagine the Beast has a great many sexual partners, it might not have done.

And honestly it _doesn’t_ hurt, Jaskier was generous with the oil and is extremely relaxed after two _very_ good orgasms, and also the knot is pressing _right_ up against his sweet spot and if he squirms just _so_ it sends shocks of pleasure through him, like very small bolts of lightning, so he pets the Beast’s fur until its ears come up again, golden eyes wide in surprise. “Don’t look so worried, darling,” he croons. “It’s fine, it’s all fine, it’s _good_.”

The Beast leans down slowly and licks his cheek again almost apologetically. Jaskier chuckles and buries his hands in the thick mane of white fur, scratching gently and grinning wider as the Beast leans into the caress. “Oh, darling, you _are_ a sweet thing, aren’t you?” he murmurs, and the Beast growls a little but doesn’t pull away at all, instead curling down further until its enormous head is nestled beside Jaskier’s, rumbling low in its chest as he pets it. It covers him completely like this, heavy and warm, and Jaskier’s rather grateful that it’s keeping most of its weight on its own arms instead of his chest, because being squished like a grape doesn’t sound like a pleasant end to the evening. But this _is_ quite pleasant, the Beast spread out over him like a very heavy blanket, so Jaskier keeps petting it, digging his fingers into the thick fur and humming in pleasure, wriggling a little to get his legs wrapped more comfortably around the Beast’s surprisingly slim hips and gasping when his movements nudge the Beast’s knot against his sweet spot and set off little flares of light behind his eyelids.

When the knot finally begins to shrink, Jaskier heaves a soft sigh and turns his head and presses a kiss to the Beast’s furry cheek, meaning to murmur some quiet thanks or compliment for one of the most adventurous - and, frankly, most _amazing_ \- nights of his life. The words get stuck in his throat, though, when the Beast makes a strangled, horrible sound of pain and wrenches out of Jaskier’s loose embrace, falling to its hands and knees a few yards away and howling in agony.

Jaskier scrambles to his feet, ignoring the ache of his ass - the Beast was honestly very considerate, given the size of its endowments - and ventures a step closer, putting out a hand to do - he’s not actually sure what, but _something_ -

And a sort of silvery haze rises around the Beast as it crouches there howling, thickening until Jaskier can’t see the Beast at all anymore, can only tell it’s still _there_ because of the agonized cries rising from the center of the mist. He reaches forward, but his hand slides away from the mist as though it’s made of slick glass.

Slowly, the agonized howling fades to nothingness. The mist swirls outward, fading as it goes; it brushes past Jaskier, cool as silk against his overheated skin. As it finally clears away, Jaskier hastens forward and falls to his knees beside the crumpled form curled on the grass.

It’s _not_ the Beast. It’s a man, pale-skinned and scarred, with long hair as silver-white as the Beast’s fur was, wearing nothing but a pair of loose silver manacles. Jaskier puts a hand on his bare shoulder, and the man groans and rolls over onto his side, blinking up at Jaskier with familiar golden eyes.

“Er,” Jaskier says. “Hello?”

Internally, he’s gibbering a bit. This can _only_ be the cursed prince, who has been a Beast on the night of every full moon since he was a boy and his mother enraged a powerful sorceress. And the moon is still high in the sky, lighting everything with eerie sharp-edged shadows.

“Hello,” the presumably-no-longer-cursed prince rasps, and sits up slowly. He’s a tall man, probably an inch or so taller than Jaskier, and broad in the shoulders, though not nearly so impressively enormous as the Beast was. His skin is littered with long-healed, silver scars. He looks down at his own hands, turning them over like he’s not sure he’s seeing them correctly. “I’m...cured?”

“Apparently?” Jaskier says. “I’ve always believed in the curative properties of a good fuck, but this _does_ seem a bit excessive.”

The prince snorts softly. “Not the fuck,” he says, and reaches up to touch his own cheek. Jaskier follows the gesture and gapes a little: very faintly, on the prince’s cheek, he can see a silver shadow in the shape of a pair of lips. His kiss. “Fearless affection.”

“That’s a nasty condition to put on a curse like that,” Jaskier says, settling cross-legged on the grass and wincing a little at the stretch in his hips. “But it makes for an _awfully_ good story, I must admit. Are you _sure_ I can’t make a song out of this? I could leave all the...ah...identifying details out, I’m sure.”

The prince eyes Jaskier dubiously. “Because there are so many cursed princes in the world.”

“Alright, fair point,” Jaskier agrees. “Oh! I could make it a tale of long-ago - have the prince turned into a Beast all the time, not just on the full moon - replace my own lovely self with a beautiful maiden who redeems the Beast with the power of her chaste love -”

“...So nothing like this at all,” the prince says slowly, corners of his mouth beginning to turn up.

“Pretty much nothing like this,” Jaskier says, grinning back. “Because if I sang what _really_ happened, I’d be tossed out of half the taverns on the continent for lewdness. I don’t like to think what they’d do in Kovir.” He considers. “I could do a version to sing in brothels, I suppose. Probably be pretty popular. I’d still want to substitute a fair maiden, though; madames tend to like to get their clients thinking about fucking _women_ , usually.”

“You’re a menace, aren’t you,” the prince says, and the corners of his eyes are crinkling in amusement even if his mouth stays nearly expressionless.

“What gave it away?” Jaskier asks. “The sneaking into the cursed palace grounds? Or the inviting the Beast to hunt me down and fuck me senseless?”

The prince actually chuckles, and rises to his feet, offering Jaskier a hand up. He’s stunningly beautiful in the moonlight, all silver and shadow, with those startling golden eyes. He doesn’t let go of Jaskier’s hand once they’re both on their feet, either.

“What is your name, fearless bard?” he murmurs, breath warm against Jaskier’s lips.

“Jaskier. And yours, o uncursed prince?”

“Geralt,” the prince says. “Tell me, then, now that I am no longer quite so...magnificent...as I was - will you leave at once?”

Jaskier considers his companion for a moment: golden eyes, faint silver imprint of Jaskier’s own lips upon his cheek, very faint hope in his expression. “Well,” he says at last, “I suppose I ought to stick around for a bit and make sure the curse _stays_ broken, shouldn’t I? Wouldn’t want it to wear off, after all. We could probably manage some more fearless affection if we put our minds to it, just to make sure.”

“Could we now,” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier laughs and reaches up to lace his free hand through Geralt’s silver-white hair and pulls him down into their first proper kiss.

It is, Jaskier decides, _definitely_ a songworthy kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to blame the wonderful people over at the Bard In Kaer Morhen server for this one, I think. Beta and encouragement specifically by the marvelous Kate, to whom I give many grateful thanks!


End file.
